Remember

when i lived with her i loved a pole she kept in her living room. rainbow ribbons hanging down on rugged stem, i wondered what it was. yes, she had made it, and it was her Bannerpole of Remembrance. it was a way to mark His hand in her life, through church milestones, family blessings, and answered prayers. she asked if i'd like to make one, too. oh, yes. that was almost seven years ago, and i forget all too soon. i give voice to His existence but don't live as if He reigns.
so today i write a story, another ribbon on my pole. my faith has been bolstered, and He knew--he provided this grace and abundance for sister but also for me, so that in the telling i can cry and remember His love in my own life.

bad day. some days are you know. those wee ones with ear infections and the five of them all cooped in a too-cold home. they needed medicine, her mother in law wanted to come but wasn't allowed. a fight. the resignation, they need the medicine, so they leave without her, feeling the dull gloom of bitterness at his obstinance.

it's one of those days. you know the kind: waiting in line dealing with insurance issues, and one of the twins has an explosive diaper. she, patient mama, goes to change the little one, passing a crowd of policemen on the way. small town curiosity gets the better of her; oh, it's just a program of cops paired with low-income kids to shop for Christmas. neat-o. husband and other girls reunite and they're off to leave, just outside the door, when a call to WAIT! can you wait? we want to put you in the program, but you have to wait. looks are exchanged, agreed. (they couldn't have stayed if she'd come after all, they figure this out after the 2 hours they linger)

policeman returns to say we have $130 for each of the girls, yes even those 8 week old darlings, of course! blown away: no diapers at home. nothing left for this year, no more work, no tidy packages. loaded up with diapers for three, she passes by infant swings, notes the cost, never mind it's over limit. "hey, you need one of these don't you?" no, i can't. he puts two in the cart anyway. oldest daughter gets so many toys she can't even imagine. they check out. $900 worth of stuff, and at home no presents under the tree. so many tears fall down cheeks, mama, daddy, why are you crying?

another woman hands her bags of little girl clothing--i hope they fit. where all this generosity?

the gifts are delivered that night instead of in two weeks as the program works. he shakes the cop's hand too hard; he hangs on because he can't let go. inside living room with no room just like an inn of long ago, he reaches hands in pockets, more money stuffed in coat, enough for a bill waiting.

exasperated christians argue that Christmas isn't about giving, but this night they understand that it is about the only Gift that ever mattered. the one whose very birth was Abundance, by whom other graces are given. life is breathed anew in swings and dolls and diapers for three.

shed tears of thanksgiving and rejoicing on sister's behalf?

Here

yes, i am here.
and yes, YES! i'm doing well.
i know things have been unusually quiet here for a while; and with the joy of christmas so soon, it will probably be a little still for a bit.
i just want to thank those who've reached out to me (some of you don't have email addresses associated with your blog sign in so i can't reply) and lifted me in prayer. He hears, and He answers, blessedly.
all meds have kicked in, and i can confidently say i did the right thing for me and my family. the fog has lifted and i can't wait to share more about that and the christmas miracle God provided for my sister this week.
until then, though, i will be spending time with family and guests and recuperating from a vicious cycle of illness in our family.
much love to my friends; i'll be back soon.

Anything but thunder

i read this lovely post in a little bit of awe, i think.

how did i forget that he spoke to fishes? that he clothed lilies? that he knew every sparrow in the field?
when did i stop knowing?

i think there is a personal directive for all of us, much like elijah's: "what are you doing here?" and then, "go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the LORD, for the LORD is about to pass by: (1 kings 19: 11). we mutter our incoherent excuses, and He simply says go SEE.

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. ¹² After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper (1 kings 19: 11-12)

i see myself everywhere--my interests, my needs, my wants, my way. i cry out, "where are you? WHO are you?" all the while i stopped seeking him in anything but thunder. i cry out for writing on walls and earth ripped wide, but he whispers loudest in silent tears and my own broken heart.

how do you remember the grace of invitation, the call to see him in the wind?

a grateful nod to amy for her gentle nudging, her beautiful words to hear the only voice that matters. i am learning to sift through the rubble to see his ways; now i must sift through my own heart to see him.

and i know that i see him now in my children's eyes: the colors of the ocean, a stone, the sky; i see him in my husband's pewter circle; i see him in the knitting of stitches and the breaking of bread. i see, Lord. help me Hear.

writing imperfectly, sharing grace with emily.

Waiting to exhale

head leaning on cool glass pane, window frosting breath-puffs. here, the glass is cool in early morning light, but, too, the A/C's been on all night.
and he, so high and breathless in mountain snow and glory, exhales shivery clouds.

(the photo he took to share with us, gold-capped beauty for waking's taking.)

the coming and going marks us.
we wait for homecoming.
today he will walk on some site, crunching through snow and sales-speak.
today we will probably bake boredom away, perhaps make those traced-hand turkeys, find some way to curb all our tired grappling.
waiting is interim. sometimes interminable.
but hope waits, expectant smiles upon return. the little ones and i wait for him: give and take. it marks us raw, but it is our brand; we are his, and he is ours.

my head pounds. this is the reason i lean on glass. new medicine is still fighting its way through my body, foreign agent, muddling. i'm eager for the promised relief and expectant that new eyes can see rightly with fog lifted high.

i pray for homecoming. a return to the One i love, a turning toward instead of away. i know i've been lifted in prayer by friends. the blessing is a fresh breath, making it easier to breathe my own halting prayers.

and of course, you will notice my new look here. many thanks to my beautiful friend Sonny for transforming this space to match my vision. i think we're still tweaking it, so let me know if there is a problem!!

Worship in thanks

Healer heal me
Savior save me
Maker change me
Lover love me
Cuz I'm so tired of living for
The kind of love
That only lasts for a while
The pain, the shame
Tear me up inside

Chorus:
So I fall on my knees
To get back on my feet again
And I cry out for You
Would You please speak to me

these are the lyrics of the ten shekel shirt song healer. they have been my prayer for so long.
i have written here that my spirit has been unrestful, that my heart has been hurting. He has answered prayer in the most "not my will" kind of ways, and i have met with my Healer. unexpected places and the giving in of wills are balm to this hard heart... He knows, He always knows, doesn't He?

in a babe-new attitude of joy creeping in, with thankfulness wanting to gush no matter the week's coincidence, i continue to count his gifts, freely given, and thank Him for eyes to see the miracle in the ordinary. today, i worship soft on knees: eyes seeing, fingers flying in this space.

201. for sin that brings me to knees
202. and the forgiveness that unbinds
203. and the fear-turned-resolution to ask for the hardest thing i've ever had to do
204. and the answer, there, in chocolate skin and crinkly santa eyes, white lab coat, doctor saying, "yes, i know. i've been there. we can help you. please, misty, don't forget to run to Him, and i will pray for you."
205. for eyes that couldn't see anything through tears at his words, and then eyes that felt they could see everything thereafter:
206. the love of husband--soul-matched--hurt so much for me, how helpless he felt, the relief weighing heavy in his tears seeing me new again.
207. the love of three little boys, that only comes from little boys, the shared knowing--mama.
208. for ordinary blessings so long overlooked.... magazines with croquembouche towering tall on cover like golden dreams (and recipe! salted caramel and ricotta cream, oh my!)
209. and oatmeal made at home with butter, cinnamon, and sugar, just the way they like it
210. and dinosaur jammies with footies worn thin, pitter patter
211. and laughing RAWRS as boys fight-play, not knowing this is how they learn their place in this world
212. for maternal health and quick heartbeat--excited all over again to meet this newest ____ (he insists it's fourth boy, i wonder at pink possibilities)
213. for new bed this week to cradle growing belly and aching back
214. for pantry, full of expectations and bounty, already we give thanks before that big meal and family gathered
215. for him, so willing to travel when he'd rather stay. for steady work even when it's hard
216. and praise! for job for friend's husband... God is so good!
217. for seeing and getting to love on golden retriever rescues at the store yesterday, memories of growing up and the gentle old "tiger lily" who no one thought would be great with kids, and her surprising everyone. my children loved her best of all, her fur hardly flax anymore.
218. for the return of words and desire to write, my friend on this journey
219. and words from youngest, little parrot mimicking everything we say, so funny, so challenging!
220. for heart's fissures healing... for grace that binds me whole.

Thank you, Lord.

(joining w/ ann but i can't seem to get her button to work now. i'll try again later)

Hallelujah and living love

first, i should probably warn anyone reading this blog that i'm already in the "christmas spirit." i am anxiously awaiting socially acceptable christmas songs on the radio. one of the things i've always appreciated about my favorite christmas hymns (and this probably started with my first viewing of "hark, the herald angels sing" on it's a wonderful life) is the reverence and awe of the coming savior. this is still true, and i get lumpy-throat even now at "o, holy night," "silent night," and the haunting "we three kings."
so, when a friend posted this lovely video (i'm also a huge fan of the improv "freezes" and breaking out into dance or song videos on youtube) on facebook, i was teary and proud and amazed, but also hesitant. i wish that our lives (and by our, i suppose i should mean my own) were so attractive and amazing and inviting that we were truly living testaments to our savior, pointing the way and drawing in. breaking out in glorious song is beautiful and inspiring, but i think loving the unlovely is even more beautiful and holy.
none of this is to be preachy, because goodness knows i need the message as much as or more than most. i think my heart breaks sometimes because all i can see is the inside of my house and my duties there. i read an article i refuse to repost here where a mom compares motherhood to being a prison, but one thing she said was that perhaps the "fad" of attachment parenting lifestyles kept parents (mothers in particular) so locked into their kids' lives that they couldn't see the scope of the larger world around them. there is so much wrong with that statement, and yet a teensy part of me sometimes feels just like that. like i can't see the hurting world around me. so my prayer today and this season (almost christmas!) is to simply see--see the hurting, to try to love in as practical way as i can, those around me. and if i sing a christmas song while i'm at it, i hope it's just the icing on the cake and not the main course.

Jacob's limp

this space has been quieter than usual, even for me. i've never subscribed to so many posts per week or month; i've just tried to write for me, when i need or want it. writing here has felt a little vulnerable lately, and i think somewhere in the depression and fear, i simply froze. i've felt the effects, that desire to pull away from (not in just the virtual world, but the real one), withdraw, stop speaking. then, too, the struggle to maintain mama in a world of word-writing, and one feels frivolous on days of frozen pizzas, laundry piled high, and too many cartoons just to survive the day. how can i pit words of being broken in this broken place against the living broken in a broken place?
so these have been my struggles: the fear i said too much and the knowing i'm not speaking all that is in my heart.
and yet
through flood of tears, and simply-asked question to my earthly love last night, i think i've found my voice again. i asked, "is it possible to love myself?" he cried shining tears with me at the braveness in asking if it's okay and if so how, and he gently held and talked with a Voice bigger than his own, and i think the time stood still in prayer for us. big question, little self. and ruefully i admit i think it's time to see my counselor again.
i also stumbled upon my former pastor's blog (he's now a missionary to hungary), and this is his tagline: The wrestling angel gifted Jacob with a limp as a permanent reminder of his encounter with God. Jacob's life-long policy was to run. His final glory was that he learned to lean (Hebrews 11:21). A wound is a good thing if it is accepted as a stewardship from God, appropriated as a channel of God's strength and consecrated to God's purpose. Where dependence is the objective, weakness is the advantage.
i wrote of choosing life, and in so doing i think i need to make peace with this limp, this weakness in me--a reminder that i am His--His! that He has touched, seen, held, and loved me not despite, not through it all; He has loved me Everlasting.
so i am limping, and choosing to see the advantage: to give this back to Him, all my depression, fear, worry, self-hatred....i choose to lean.



linking this post up with emily at imperfect prose this week.